


Lovesick

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, bad written renditions of kid's songs, too cute for your own good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Greg isn't as cranky and punk rock as he likes to think he is. Iain finds out and proceeds to blackmail him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovesick

He hadn’t lived what you could call a solitary life. He’d always had plenty of mates — his sister and her kids, his nearest and dearest like Sally, and sometimes — sometimes — a bloke that he was exceptionally keen on.

But despite all of that, he’d gotten rather used to being alone. To having his own space — his own things. He had a very old, very trusted record player that even Sherlock didn’t touch, though why that was, Greg couldnt say. Maybe the idiot boy recognised the sacredness of the little machine — something at last. But it was more likely that it just didn’t hold any interest for him. Greg didn’t have many classical records — and for Sherlock it was generally a case of why bother listening when he could easily play it himself.

As a result of all that personal space — having his own flat and his own office at work — Greg developed a habit of humming quietly whenever a room felt too still. Oftentimes he had hardly any notion that he was doing it. A song would pop into his head and all he went, humming the notes in a slightly too deep, but cheerful tone as he signed off on a dozen bits of soulless paperwork.

Frankly, his friends didn’t think much of it. Greg loved music — it wasn’t as bizarre. In fact, most of the time they couldn’t even tell what song it was. Anderson assumed Greg was just making it up as he went along — plenty of people did. But Sally knew better. Nine times out of ten it was some old band they’d never heard of — and likely would never hear of again were it not for their outmoded, punk friend.

Iain didn’t really have an ear for music. He liked it — he preferred bouncier, more modern stuff than what Greg listened to. “Trash,” Greg called it actually. Mostly pop and songs that employed electronic synthesizers.

“Fucking futuristic crap,” Greg had repeated when Iain had attempted to explain how his mp3 player worked.

Still, for all his ignorance and apparent musical blasphemy, he could usually tell Greg’s favorite, dirty genre from the happy, and utterly weird tune he was currently humming.

Iain lifted his head, cocking it to the side slightly as he listened. Greg — oblivious — kept at it with his eyes closed and his legs draped over Iain’s lap. They were both supposed to be catching up on work. Obviously that meant Iain was tidying up his case files and Greg was on the verge of napping.

It took him a moment — but then it struck him. A song straight out of his childhood, and one he was fairly certain he hadn’t heard in at least ten years.

“Is that from Pocahontas?” Iain asked.

Greg looked up abruptly. “Hmm, what?”

“That song— that’s the riverbend one. Just around the riverbend…” He sang it — slightly off-key, but still recognisable.

Greg snorted dismissively. “No, it’s from…” He trailed off as his eyes wandered to the wall-to-wall bookcase around the telly. There was hardly a book there — but thanks to Greg’s impressive collection of vinyl, there was an empty inch either. “From the Clash,” he answered.

Iain’s expression stayed constant — but he could feel the muscles around his mouth tensing for want of a smile. “You hate the Clash.”

“Like ‘em more than bloody Pocahontas,” Greg retorted, rolling on to his side and stuffing a couch pillow under his head.

“What song was it?”

“Eh?”

“From the Clash, what’s the song called?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try,” Iain insisted.

“Forgot it already,” Greg muttered, feigning drowiness.

“Really?” Iain was grinning now. He couldn’t help himself. “It’s something like this.”

He started humming. It wasn’t quite right — the last time he’d heard that particular song, as far as he could remember, was at a shitty university party with too many women and not enough booze. But he had a cousin about his age who had loved it, and refused to watch anything else when they were children, so the words and notes slowly came back to him.

“Just around the riverbend,” he sang, fully aware of how bad he sounded. “I look once more… duh dah hmmmhmhmmmmm.”

Greg grunted — and Iain hummed louder.

“No, wait. That isn’t it. Just beyond the river’s end… something about the wind, right? And painting colours… is that the bit with her animal friends? I know there’s a bear.”

Greg sat up. “Oh, fuck’s sake, stop. You’re mixing it up.”

Iain stopped. His mouth was hanging open.

“It’s two bloody songs,” Greg explained. “Just around the riverbend—” He hummed the refrain. “And Colours of the Wind, which is later.” He briefly hummed that as well, and added: “That’s after she meets Smith.”

Iain hadn’t moved. He was lost in a wave of shock and extraordinarily wicked glee that his very nearly fifty year old partner knew a children’s movie well enough to correct him.

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Charlotte’s favourite movie,” he said defensively. “Between that and sodding Tangles, I can’t get her to watch anything else.”

“And you watch it with her.”

“I babysit. It’s not like I’m gonna bloody leave her on her own.”

“So how many times have you seen Tangled?”

“Sod off,” Greg told him, standing up.

“No, seriously — this is important,” Iain explained, still grinning manically. “I need to know that I can tell Sally. And everyone else we know.”

Greg stopped and glared at him. He’d been sluggishly dragging his feet toward the bedroom, but the threat of being exposed as a closeted Disney fanatic — even though he wasn’t one, really — was too much to ignore.

“Don’t.”

Iain held up his phone. He had a text message to Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan open on the screen. “Or what?” He asked, beaming.

“I’ll kill you and have Sherlock hide the body.”

“You think you can kill me faster than I can send this text?”

He couldn’t. Greg’s shoulders slumped. Damn his friends — evil bastards, the lot of them. His poor, sweet mum would’ve been ashamed.

“Don’t,” he repeated, sounding significantly less authoritarian and just a bit sad.

Iain’s grin shifted to a bemused smile. “Oh, don’t even try — your bloody puppy eyes don’t work on me.”

Damn them all, Greg thought, and huffed. “What do you want then?” he demanded, giving in to the blackmail and letting his expression settle into a more familiar, bulldog-like grumpiness.

“I don’t know, ” Iain mused.

“You shouldn’t want anything.”

“But there’s no fun in that.”

“There’s no fucking fun in this,” Greg answered.

“Go lay down,” Iain told him. “I’ll think of something.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why, so you can chuck it out the window?” Iain shook his head. “I’d just tell her when I see her at work tomorrow.”

Recognising that he’d been soundly beaten, Greg grunted and surrendered by retreating into the bedroom. Iain heard the bed creak as the curmudgeonly old detective sprawled out in the bed that should have comfortably fit them both, but never did.

And then — just like the song — an idea struck him.

“I want you to buy us a new bed,” he called out to the open bedroom door. “A bigger one.” It was the perfect opportunity — Greg hated change.

But there was no response. Iain tilted his head again — he didn’t hear any snoring. There was no way Greg could have fallen asleep that fast.

Some time later, Greg answered: “No.”

Iain shrugged and picked up his phone to send that text, but Greg spoke up again.

“It’s already too damned big when you’re off on your trips. Any wider and I’d end up sleeping on the couch.”

And at that moment, Iain was grateful there was a thick wall between them. The last thing he needed was for Greg to see the flustered, lovesick expression on his face.


End file.
